At the End of the Story
by Shadowy Star
Summary: I just don’t think that all’s been told. DxG


**At the End of the Story**

by Shadowy Star

August 2006

Disclaimer: I don't own the Coldfire trilogy. It belongs to C.S. Friedman. I do own this story. Do not archive or translate or otherwise use the story without permission.

**A/N:** I just don't think that all's been told.

An alternate ending again.

* * *

Damien looked down at the burning Forest.

The flames consuming the Hunter's domain were dark, a red of drying blood as if even the fire itself was somehow tainted. Of course, the pure and purifying element of fire, fueled with wishes of men and blessings of the Church, was about to win.

Damien sighed quietly. It always had been easier to destroy than to create. For all it seemed, humanity didn't learn much from the past. They still feared what they did not understand and still did destroy what they feared. That was always like this, he knew. Past repeating itself. Same old story.

Bitterness overcame him. Had this really been necessary? But, of course, they didn't understand what kind of genius had been needed to create a complete –and functioning– ecosystem. They didn't see what it really had been standing for. A triumph of will over the fae, something humanity on Erna had never accomplished before. And since. Of course, again, they were far too short-sighted for that. They always thought in terms of black and white. Maybe it was easier to do so. Maybe one didn't need to truly _think_ when one's world was painted in extremes. When everything could be neatly put into a category like into a set of drawers. Light or dark, good or evil, human or not. Damien knew better. Nothing in life was either black or white. World was made of shades of gray and even the darkest soul might still hold a spark within. As Gerald's had had.

Of that Damien was sure for he'd found himself drawn to that little spark even more than to the man's darkness. He remembered countless occasions he'd wanted to make it grow until maybe it would be enough to chase away the dark…

Speaking of short-sighted, Damien thought, cutting off that train of thought before it could lead him to areas he didn't want to contemplate, would someone think of Gerald's books? And all the knowledge, now lost to said humanity forever? Most probably, no. The Church would surely have ordered to burn those 'evil' books, fearing the knowledge they held. Fearing the _history_ they held. How ironic that the Prophet's most powerful creation turned out quite opposite to his intention. He asked himself if Gerald did foresee that. But then again, Gerald had been damned to Hell by this very Church. Perhaps he did know.

Books… He remembered having read an essay of an ancient Terran philosopher who stated that one's life was just a story someone else was telling. _In that case_, he thought, _my life is a very boring story indeed_. A common fate, nothing exceptional, nothing worth reading. Nothing worth remembering. Why should he keep on continuing? He'd lost his calling, his integrity, his place in the world. What, he asked himself, held this existence for him? All it would take was a step and a leap over the railing. A few moments of falling and then… Peace. Oblivion. And yet…

Here he was, standing on the observation deck again, contemplating yesterday's revelations. But was this the only reason to come to that place again? Or was he waiting for something? Or rather, someone?

_Don't be stupid,_ he told himself firmly. There was no reason for the youth to be here again – even if what he'd said had been the truth. A truth so unbelievable and yet … so _possible_ at the same time if you knew the man in question.

The dance of fire and shadows before his eyes held a beauty of its own and somehow seemed to mirror his own heart that, too, was full of dying fire and growing shadows. He knew he should be leaving long ago but … what for? It wasn't like he had a place to return to. And so he stayed, the weight of loneliness on his heart growing heavier with each passing day…

He heard soft footsteps behind but didn't bother turning around. Somehow, there was nothing left for him to say to the world. Somehow he liked it.

"Is the view that fascinating for you to come again?" a cool, cultured voice asked.

Damien stilled for a moment, with anticipation perhaps and hope, then sighed quietly, briefly closing his eyes. When he turned around, he did it slowly, knowing full well already which face he would see. Taking his time.

"I could ask you the same," he said, careful to hide his bitterness, careful to hide his hope. Keeping his face neutral.

"You could," the other man agreed softly, black eyes crystal clear. "Would you?"

"Why should I? That's not like I were going to get an answer." Now, only bitterness remained, forcing his shoulders into a shrug.

"You're presuming much not knowing me." Such unfamiliar a voice, so familiar the cadences.

"Ah… but sometimes presuming is all we have, isn't it?"

At that, the black-haired young man laughed mirthlessly. "I should've known better than to discuss semantics with a priest."

Damien smiled sadly. "Well, ten years of church education tend to do that to you. And I'm no longer a priest." Somehow it felt necessary, _important,_ to confirm that, yes, he no longer belonged to the Church.

Silence spread its wings between them. A silence tense and comfortable at once. Damien knew it from long experience and had long ago come to appreciate it. It was welcome now, a bittersweet reminder of all those 'had beens' and 'might have beens', filled with all the questions he'd never ask and answers he'd never get. That, again, was familiar. He looked once again down at the Forest. Searching there for his answers. Or for his questions.

"They say one's live is nothing but a mere story someone else's telling," he said finally when he felt ready to continue with this conversation.

"Do you believe that?" the younger man asked with genuine curiosity.

Damien sighed. "I don't know what to believe anymore. What to have faith in. I don't even know if I'm still _able_ to have faith."

The other stood very still, not looking at him. The expression upon the beautiful face was one of … guilt?

"I'm sorry." The voice was kept carefully distant.

"Nothing of this is your fault." Damien said. "Why would a stranger like you feel sorry?" His effort to keep the bitterness from his voice failing so terribly and completely this time.

The other's eyes were burning with a far too familiar anger as they snapped up to Damien's.

"_Because_," he began, stressing the word, "that were a stranger like me."

"Oh and what could it possibly be that would make you different from any other stranger walking up this pass?" Damien retorted acidly without thinking.

The anger vanished from the other's eyes instantly, replaced by something much like understanding. The answer came quickly, without hesitance.

"Well, the same things maybe that make _you_ different from all of them?" A familiar quirk of lips, not quite a smile, accompanied the words and only then did Damien realize what had escaped his lips just a moment before. His eyes must have shown some of his shock for Gerald's smile grew almost imperceptibly.

Damien stood still for a moment, the sheer possibility lurking behind Gerald's words rending him speechless. When he'd managed to process that – and was sure he'd processed it properly, he felt his heart lighten, much of the weight being lifted by one simple sentence. If only…

"If one's live is a story, what do you think the ending will be?" Gerald asked, honest curiosity to his tone, his smile fading into seriousness.

Damien's breath caught in his throat and he somehow forgot how to exhale.

"You know, tragic endings are surely literary most valuable but I've always preferred the happy ones." The tone was light but the beautiful eyes were intent, as if searching for something.

"Did you?" Damien raised one skeptical eyebrow, releasing the breath he'd been holding, growing more accustomed to that strange/familiar conversation. And something in those black eyes softened visibly. If you knew what to look for, of course.

"Sickening, isn't it?" That dry humor, again, so utterly familiar.

Still, there was a distance to go. Damien wondered if they could bridge it.

All mirth fleeing at that thought, he took a closer look at the other. New clothes, new weapons. The man certainly had money. "Unlike me, you seem to have a place to go to," he said finally, grief back in full force. Nothing ever changed. No matter what had been said, Gerald was still leaving. He had been stupid to hope. Really, he should have known.

"Yes," the young-looking, not-at-all-young man answered solemnly, stepping forward, his eyes never leaving Damien's, burning with an emotion Damien for once had no problems deciphering. _Could it be true? Please, let it be true…_

"And this is where I am right now." Gerald took that last step and placed his head onto Damien's shoulder. Just that. No embraces, no kisses. Just this display of complete trust.

It _was_ true, and it was all that mattered, and Damien sighed happily and put his arms around the younger man's waist. It was only then he felt slender arms encircle him in return.

"Gerald," he muttered, relishing the sound of those familiar syllables. Sure now them being safe to voice.

Soft lashes fluttered briefly across his cheek as the other turned his head to look at him.

"Gerald Tarrant – no," he said gently. "Gerald da Silva – yes."

Damien tightened his hold, bringing them even closer, not daring to say something that could prove disastrous. He would have to learn very carefully what could be said and how it had to be phrased. He looked at the other man and, imagining them both caught up in a discussion like that one again, he couldn't help smiling. Could be fun.

"It would be nice," Gerald said, pressing a widening smile into Damien's chest, "if you could let me have some room to breathe. That's something living beings do, you know."

At that, Damien laughed heartily, relieved to no end, and drew back a little.

To his utter surprise, the very next second his lips were captured in a most passionate kiss. "Uhm–" was all sound he managed to produce before all coherent thought fled him. He moved his lips in answer hungrily, fervently, turning tables on the other by sliding his tongue into Gerald's mouth and making him moan in sheer pleasure. When his need for oxygen became predominant after some measure of time very much akin to eternity, he finally let go.

When he looked down at his lover's then, he found him gazing back, beautiful black eyes full of soft wonder. "What are you looking at?" he asked, somewhat confused.

"My happy ending," Gerald answered. And smiled slightly, and kissed him again.

…Somewhere in the outskirts of Jaggonath, two people live.

The older one, a man with chestnut brown hair and soft hazel eyes works as a physician in a nearby hospital. He's succeeded brilliantly at conventional medicine – perhaps due to his experience as a Healer but more likely due to his devotion. Being a Healer has always been part of his calling, and there's no regret in his eyes when he passes by a church. He likes his job much but sometimes, he will raise his head and think of a pair of eyes, black as night or maybe pale as silver, and as soon his shift's over, he will head back home.

The younger one, with hair and eyes both black as True Night, is running the 'Phoenix Labs', a quite successful research institute. Currently, he's working at a new –or rather recently re-discovered– technique to harden metals enough for them to resist high pressure and extreme temperatures. Science has become far more reliable, now with the fae unWorkable, and there's no regret in his eyes when he thinks of that. Sometimes, he too, will raise his head from his project and think of a warm smile and even more warm eyes, and he will put down his apparatuses and also head home.

There's no link between them except the one that love creates, and they feel no need for something else either. The bond they once have shared belongs to a darker time and has no place before the light of the day.

Sometimes –which is close to 'rarely' for they prefer to stay at home and spend most of the time together– they will walk down the streets together, and people will smile when they pass by. It's obvious that for them, the world doesn't exist but for each other. True love is a rarity these days.

Sometimes, usually when True Night falls, one of them will think of the past but each time, there are warm arms and hot lips of the other one to hold the memories in check. And vice versa. The past is a part of who they are and therefore not to be forgotten but it doesn't matter that much now. It's their future that matters and they don't need Divining to know they will face it together.

Somewhere in the outskirts of Jaggonath, two people live…

FIN


End file.
